A Suit of Red
by Sarahmouse
Summary: For my English 3 class I had to write something using imagery. A few weeks earlier I had spotted a gif set that interested me. It showed Moriarty torturing Sherlock and had a fanfic below it about Mycroft receiving the pictures. This is based only on the gif set. It is about the torture of Sherlock not how any friends or family react to that torture.


Sherlock could tell something was wrong the moment he woke up. The light that came from the center of the ceiling was too bright. Even the air was wrong; musty. In seconds he had blinked the sleep from his eyes and knew what must have happened. In the middle of the night as he slept soundly, he had been abducted. Now he lay on a mattress that was surprisingly clean given the worn out look of the room. The walls were made of concrete; strong, but damp with water. The floor was made of the same material but instead of slipping on it, one merely had to worry about tripping on one of the many cracks. The ceiling was made of a darker concrete that wasn't correctly mixed, it was rocky not slimy or cracked but nothing beautiful either. The door was on the wall opposite of the mattress. But it was raised so it just touched the ceiling and had a shinning golden circular handle. It and the stairs leading to the room were made of a dark mahogany. The only other thing in the room was a cabinet by the steps made of matching wood and nearly identical handles.

With a creek that echoed through the room, the door opened wide. Down came a polished left shoe and then an equally shiny right shoe. Freshly pressed black dress pants were followed by a snow-white dress shirt. In less then a minute Moriarty stood before Sherlock Holmes. His voice was quiet yet forceful, "Welcome, my dear, to our little game." For once Sherlock didn't try to interrupt. He let Moriarty continue, "I was going to burn the heart out of you but...this is just as fun. I'm going to see how long it takes till you beg for your life. How much your brilliant mind can take."

A second man walked through the creaky door and stood beside Moriarty. With a glance Sherlock could tell that this man was Moriarty's John. The man was short; actually he was equal to John's five feet six inches. But where John was compassionate and protective, this man was ready to be bought by anyone who paid the right amount. The glance wasn't missed by Moriarty, "I believe you've already met my associate, Sebastian Moran. He held the guns that had been aimed at you and John when we had that little chat by the pool." Moriarty droned on and Sherlock tuned him out, instead he searched for a way out. Certainly he could knock Moriarty's thin frame out of the way. But Sebastian was another matter entirely.

Sherlock's focus was brought back to the present as shackles were placed around his wrists and ankles. His arms were lifted above his head as he was brought to his feet. Moriarty had gone to the cabinet, pulled a whip from it, and handed it off to Sebastian as he walked back to Sherlock. He said, "You and Sebastian are going to get to know each other while I'm gone. Don't worry though, I'll be back soon enough." He turned away, looked at Sebastian, smiled, and walked back up the steps, closing the door behind him.

Sebastian checked to see if the shackles would hold his victim up. They could and would. Without a word he gripped the leather handle of the whip. He backed a step or two away from Sherlock and lifted the whip high into the air. With a reverberating crack the multiple strips of leather tipped with metal struck Sherlock's back. Drops of his blood stained the tips of the metal. Holmes let out a shaky breath knowing that his body was fine. It would heal, it always did...eventually.

More blood was spilt. Sometimes his flesh was ripped away as his blood painted the floor. At first Sebastian took his time. He lifted the whip into the air, let Sherlock tense up and then loosen his muscles thinking his tormenter had changed his mind. As his pace quickened, his area of attack changed. He focused on Sherlock's back and then his torso. Sherlock's shirt lay in tatters around him in no time. His blood danced down his his chest and ran down his back by the time Sebastian was through.

Sebastian slapped Sherlock on the shoulder when he was done causing the man to yelp in pain. Then he walked over to the cabinet. His steps echoed, mixing with Sherlock's ragged breathing. The whip fell down into its place without a sound. Sherlock could tell that the cabinet must have been lined with cloth or velvet at some point. Sebastian came back and unclasped Sherlock's wrists. He stepped back letting Sherlock fall to his knees. With a smile he informed Sherlock what he was going to do, "I have been paid to make sure you suffer. Moriarty wants to hear you beg when he comes back down. I've already turned you into such a beautiful work of art but that isn't enough. I need to break you. I know you, Sherlock; you spent most of our time together in your mind palace. Well now it's time to destroy the one thing you have in this place."

He went back to the cabinet, removing a funnel, some water, and straps for Sherlock's head and wrists. When he returned to Holmes's side he pulled him down, laying him flat. The straps cut into Sherlock's wrists, rubbing them raw. His head was strapped down next. Sebastian was silent as he rigged up the funnel and filled it with water. He looked down at the man trapped beneath him, "I'm sure you've read about the Chinese Water Torture. I want to see how many drops it takes to make you snap." With those words Sebastian uncorked the funnel.

Drip, drop, drip, every unpredictable few seconds a drop of water fell onto Sherlock's forehead. After a few minutes Sherlock heard the slam of the wooden door. If he could have he would have flinched. But he was tied to tightly, his fingers twitched and his eyes blinked rapidly. He tried to slip away, to go to his mind palace. But to go there he needed silence or at the very least he needed to be able to block out his surroundings. Normally John would give him the silence he had needed and when he didn't he was able to block out the ramblings around him. But trapped as he was he could only manage to slip through the front doors of his palace only to have a splash of water kick him right back out.

Days could have passed but most certainly several hours did. All Sherlock could focus on was waiting for the next drop of water and the trails it made down the sides of his face. He felt colder then he ever truly remembered being. Moriarty opened the door and walked down the steps without a sound. Stopping beside Sherlock he looked down taking a phone out of his coat pocket. He admired Sebastian's work for a few moments before he unlocked the phone. Carefully aiming it he took picture after picture of Sherlock's broken body and a few of the conditions Holmes was in. After he was satisfied with the results he sent a few to Sherlock's brother Mycroft. When he was done he recorked the funnel, stopping the water. Sherlock didn't move. In fact he didn't realize that the water had stopped. He could still hear it in his head and feel it chilling him to the bone.

Moriarty snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's eyelids. They snapped open and Sherlock strained against the restraints. "It doesn't take much to slow you down, my dear." Moriarty's voice was louder then before. His words banged around Sherlock's head making the man whimper. Moriarty stroked Sherlock's face as he dialed a number into his phone and turned the speaker on so Sherlock could listen in. The phone rang once, twice, three times before someone picked up.

Silence. The man at the other end said nothing. Moriarty was the first to break the silence, "Have you seen your little brother? Red suits him don't you think?" He unclasped the straps around Sherlock's head as he talked. Suddenly grabbing a handful of the inky mass of hair, yanking hard. Sherlock yelped and tried to free himself from Moriarty's grasp. With a final sharp tug he released Sherlock only to dig his fingers into Holmes's face. His index finger nearly cut into Sherlock's right eye. The middle and ring fingers penetrated Sherlock's sharp cheek. Moriarty's thumb rested on the left one. Blood began to slowly trickle from the wounds.

Talking to Sherlock now he said, "Come on beg. Let me. Let your brother hear you beg." His fingers dug deeper and Sherlock cried out. The pain seemed to blossom, staring where the nails cut his flesh and then entrapping his whole face. Leaning closer to Sherlock he said, "Beg for me and this will end. Your pain will stop."

Sherlock couldn't think clearly. Each breath brought a painful spasm through his body. In the back of his mind he could still hear the dripping of water. Something in him snapped. In a cracking whisper he said, "Please." Moriarty loosened his fingers but didn't quite let go. He needed Sherlock to truly beg and Sherlock understood that. Holmes cleared his throat causing bloody spittle to cover his lips, "Please...just stop it. Stop this. I can't, my body can't take much more. Please, Moriarty what do you want?" Now the fingers released his face only to slap it. Sherlock could feel the print of Moriarty's hand flower across his right cheek. That was how Moriarty punctuated his answer of, "Beg."

Sherlock Holmes begged and pleaded. If he could have been on his knees he would have been. Finally Moriarty held up a hand to silence him. He turned to the phone that was still in his hand. His eyes seemed to shine, as he said, "Isn't he adorable when he begs?" For the first time Mycroft answered him, "Let him go." The words were soft, firm but not showing an ounce of worry for his little brother. Those were the only words Sherlock got to hear his brother say before Moriarty disconnected the call. He only shrugged and turned to Sherlock, "Wrong thing to say."

Moriarty walked away from Sherlock with a slight spring in his step. He made it to the door and then turned around, "I'll send Sebastian back for a second round, shall I?" He didn't wait for a reply. He merely opened the door and then slammed it as hard as he could, letting it cut through Sherlock's head. In that moment Sherlock missed his blogger, his doctor, his John Watson. In that moment he had an inkling of what war felt like. He remembered when he had asked John what he would say if he was going to die. The reply had been, "Please God let me live." Sherlock had marked that line as silly at the time. He had thought that turning to a God in your final moments was a waste of precious seconds. At the very least he had planed to say something worthwhile in those moments. But all he could do now, when faced with death, was say, "Please God let me live."


End file.
